


La Liberté pleure

by wylltpenyddraig



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mentions of Violence, i'm not saying that victor hugo was wrong but he was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24448882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wylltpenyddraig/pseuds/wylltpenyddraig
Summary: "There are some men who can live only in union with the other who is their reverse side; their name is one of a pair, always preceded by the conjonction 'and'; they are the other side of a destiny which is not theirs."two characters studies of some sorts.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	La Liberté pleure

**Author's Note:**

> (If you find this offensive, please tell me and I'll take it down and republish it at another time.)

**I.**

Enjolras grows up hearing his father say that a man’s duty is to protect his family. The family he is born into owns a printing press and is very influential in the Haute-Loire. They have their private family bench at the local church and his mother likes to host company in their manor. His father wants his only son to study the law in Paris and to come back a grown man ready to take over the family business.

Paris is a revelation: Enjolras learns law, and studies misery, and there is this whisper inside that something is wrong with society. One day, while ruffling through the university’s library, he finds by a glorious mistake the writings of Rousseau, of Robespierre, of Danton. He knows of them, as everyone else does, after all, who did not lose a family member to the Terror? He starts to read, and he wants to read them all.

(Enjolras also meets a man in Paris who makes his legal Latin books fall in the middle of the street. The man gives them back, making a comment that could have been innocuous to most, but had Enjolras’ face turn the deepest of reds. This man is beautiful. Enjolras’ heart wants to burst out of his chest―They have the same desires. The man blurts his name: _Grantaire, or Capital R_. Enjolras laughs, and laughs, and laughs.) 

The first friend he makes in Paris is a young man named Courfeyrac, a fellow law student. Enjolras tells him his ideas and opinions, and Courfeyrac happens to share them as well. Soon after, two other law students join them: Bahorel and Lesgle―Bossuet to his friends, the latter is followed by his good friend Joly, a med student. 

(Enjolras enjoys spending his nights with Grantaire and talking with him about the great thinkers of the last century. It’s the only pleasure he allows himself.) 

A few months later, Joly brings another med student, Combeferre, to the unofficial meeting they had called at their favourite café, the Musain. Between the wine, and the cider, and the unshakable conviction that every man is created equal, that night sees the birth of the Société des Amis de l’ABC.

He goes to Bahorel for advice about successful riots, who has been in this kind of business since 1820. In the last days of July 1830, the king tries to silence the printers: they revolt. The next day, the protestation becomes a true revolution and the barricades rise―Les Amis de l’ABC make of it their baptism of fire. The third day, the king flees with his family, the leaders of this revolution debate and Enjolras can finally breathe and hug his friends―his family―, relieved that they are all safe and unharmed. On their barricade, they meet a fan maker named Feuilly, who shares their convictions and ideas. Feuilly is an autodidact and Enjolras wants to learn all he can from this incredible man.

When the liberals reject the République, Enjolras is torn between wanting to pick up his gun again to storm the Chambres or letting the people understand their mistake. He does not go to Grantaire, who does not believe in humanity: he goes to Combeferre who tells him to wait, that educating the people is better than another bloody revolution. 

Enjolras is startled when Grantaire tenderly touches his shoulder after a meeting at the Musain and he can’t help but smile, certain that the man is cured of his doubts. Alas, nothing has changed: Grantaire still mocks him and his ideals, but he now also distracts his friends. How dare he attend their meetings to drink his absinth and monologue in enigmas, when Enjolras knows Grantaire could help? Against all odds, Grantaire slowly settles in their group.

(Enjolras gets used to seeing Grantaire come again and again to the meetings, despite the harsh rebukes.) 

Enjolras learns Général Lamarque's death and pushes his grief deep inside, throwing himself in the final preparations of a revolution. He knows where to find guns, powder and bullets in Paris, and knows his words can set a crowd ablaze. He reads what is in the air and he knows the right moment is soon. He plans where they will commandeer the cortege with Combeferre and Feuilly.

He helps Prouvaire to strengthen some of the weakest points of the barricade. His blood is still singing, but Enjolras sees Grantaire and it freezes in his veins. He tries to send him home: his place is not on the barricade. Enjolras helps carry the pavement torn from the streets. He counts their reserve of gunpowder and bullets, and their bandages with Combeferre.

(And the nightmare begins, he runs into the Corinth; the blood on his hands blends in the red of their flag that he holds in a death grip, his throat is painfully tight; his eyes burn; he cannot breathe; the walls of the cabaret seem to be closing in―He turns around when he hears someone proclaiming that they have found the leader. Enjolras holds onto the comforting thought that Grantaire did not see their family fall. He throws his empty gun on the ground, stares the Garde Nationale down, and asks: _Shoot me._ ) 

**II.**

Grantaire, despite all his vices, has the most excellent memory. He remembers the smell of the paintings’ fumes in the workshop. He remembers his mother’s letters, of their anxious words asking if the city air was helping his melancholia. He remembers not wanting to tell her that Paris has her own pestilence, a normal product of society’s opposites sharing the same space. He remembers discovering Paris; her streets, the never-ending string of new cafés and cabarets, and of the sudden and refreshing invisibility.

(He remembers their secrets. How could he ever forget?)

He remembers preferring to spend his time at cabarets instead of at the workshop. He remembers his newly-wed sister visiting him, who had tried to liven up his logis with flowers. He remembers promising to write back to their mother, just before his sister’s return to Bretagne. He remembers meeting Enjolras for the first time.

(He remembers a cold day in january 1830, a year after their first meeting: it was snowing heavily, and the contrast of Enjolras’ red cheeks and the black of his coat almost made them throw the necessary caution of their habits to the wind.)

He remembers the July revolution. He remembers swearing to Enjolras that he would not go out until everything was clear. He remembers the barricades blocking the streets and the anguish and fears born from those three sleepless nights. He remembers the Garde Nationale roaming the streets, the air heavy with gunpowder and the cries outside his window.

He remembers meeting Joly and Bossuet, their easy friendship and trading puns, wine, and the latest gossip over dominoes and brunch. He remembers their invitation to join them at the café Musain one night. He remembers finding there Enjolras preaching republican ideals, warning about the dangers of a monarchist France.

(He remembers that Enjolras did not see him until he had gone to tell him that his logis was a couple of minutes away from the Musain. He remembers the warmth, the softness of their embrace, and a smile pressed into his shoulder.) 

He remembers starting to attend meetings regularly and enjoying looking at Enjolras talking from the back of the second floor room. He remembers the months and the seasons flying by, and Enjolras somewhat accepting his presence. He remembers listening to them and drinking of his absinth for each doubting thought he has.

He remembers a young poet joining them, one Jean Prouvaire, bashful and innocent, but as dedicated to the republican ideal as the others. He remembers listening to his poems and searching with Bahorel the thing that would make Prouvaire blush. He remembers Courfeyrac’s friend, Pontmercy, raving about Napoléon, and that poor boy, Combeferre’s scathing answer. He remembers exiting the Musain, sharing a fondly exasperated look with Feuilly.

He remembers Enjolras telling him that he had called for an emergency meeting at the Musain the next day, and mentioning that he could refrain from coming to this one. He remembers going to that meeting anyways, a smug grin on his face. He remembers watching Enjolras assign duties to each member and tell Courfeyrac that he has no one to go to the Barrière du Maine. He remembers offering his services, and the disbelief of Enjolras. He remembers his joy when Enjolras agrees to send him. 

(He remembers wanting to answer _don’t you remember our lazy mornings, naked in your bedsheets; you reading aloud those republicans’ writings you seem to sometimes love more than me, and me drawing you, asking question after question?_ but settling for a simple _why not?_ He remembers going back home, putting on the red Robespierre waistcoat Enjolras had forgotten on his bed two weeks ago, and going back to the Musain to reassure him that everything would go perfectly.)

He remembers wandering in Paris, accompanied only by the dawn: Enjolras had made him promise to not participate in Lamarque’s funeral. He remembers dining and drinking with Joly and Bossuet at the Corinthe. He remembers Courfeyrac and Bossuet deciding that the barricade would rise right here, in front of the cabaret and helping his friends to throw some piece of furniture through the second floor window. He remembers a piano shattering on the pavement, the rising barricade that steals his breath, that makes his whole world spin. He sits at a small table, and he tries to breathe.

He remembers the words― _Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of wanting, of living and of dying_ ―that Enjolras spits, with the desperate hope that it will make him leave the barricade. He remembers the overwhelming need to be with him; with them. 

(He will not remember Enjolras coming into the Corinthe to see if he was still asleep at the last table of the cabaret, draping his coat across his shoulders.)

He remembers the deafening silence that wakes him from his drunk slumber, he remembers Enjolras shining eyes. He remembers the _Vive la République! I am one of them_ that falls from his lips. He remembers Enjolras’ surprise. 

  
(He _believes_ and he remembers. _If you permit it_. The bloodied hand that takes his hand and the trembling and relieved smile seem to whisper a last _I lov―_ ) 


End file.
